


In Shining Armor

by thirdsister



Series: If Only: Romanogers AUs [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Enchanted (2007) Fusion, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Single Mom Natasha
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24657454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirdsister/pseuds/thirdsister
Summary: Sir Steven is all set to marry his love-at-first-sight, Princess Margaret when a mysterious old crone banishes him to a strange land where no one is kind, the carriages roar like beasts, and the night has thousands of lights but no stars.Natasha is a single mother who has sworn off heroes and while her friends might occasionally, jokingly, throw around the term "jaded", Natasha Likes to think of herself as pragmatic. And busy. But when a story-book knight saves her son's life she finds herself rethinking her no hero policy.Romanogers Enchanted AU
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Series: If Only: Romanogers AUs [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1292639
Comments: 58
Kudos: 114





	1. Once Upon A Time

Once upon a time, in a land of danger and magic there lived a queen. A powerful enchantress and skilled military leader. In her youth, the queen fell hopelessly, desperately in love. Not with the man who would become her husband, no, her marriage to King Harry was a strategic match. The queen’s love was far more tempting and far more dangerous than the affection of any man. She loved only the sound of bones splintering beneath her boot, the smell of fresh blood on an open field, the heat of a besieged city set ablaze, the sight of an entire army laying their weapons down and kneeling in supposition. She craved power and no amount would ever be enough to satisfy her insatiable desire. 

The queen loved power so much she resolved not let any force, even the cold fingers of death pry it from her grasp. She would simply live forever. Never mind that the cost of such magic would whither the heart in her chest. She hadn’t been using it much anyway. There was, however, one small flaw in her plan: a daughter. King Harry’s child from his first marriage and, as he and his second bride had no children, sole heir to both thrones. The queen had a plan for this as well. She would keep young Princess Margaret and raise her to be wise, studious, and diplomatic. She would hide her away in the kingdom’s great libraries until she could find the perfect match for the princess, one that would strengthen her alliance with another kingdom. Preferably one far far away. 

\--

Years passed and as the queen’s empire grew so did her step-daughter in both grace and beauty. As the young princess blossomed into womanhood, she developed an independent spirit that the queen found both admirable and, occasionally, inconvenient. She would make a _formidable_ bride and an excellent diplomat. It wasn’t long before marriage offers began pouring in from every corner of the realm. All that was left for the queen to do was find the perfect prince. But, as it often does, trouble arrived on horseback in the shape of two handsome knights. 

The forest was so peaceful and the weather so pleasant, that the two men let their conversation wander from the usual path of hunting and slaying gruesome beasts to fair thoughts of romance.  


“When I meet the right maiden, I’ll know,” swore Sir Steven, a golden-haired knight as constant and true as the north star emblazoned on his shield.  


“How?” asked his fellow knight and oldest companion, a brave and charming, sometimes _too_ charming man with a nasty habit of running headfirst into enchantments.  


“I’ll feel it. I’ll know.”  


“You never stick around long enough after the rescuing’s done to _know_ anyone.”  


“I suppose I should be more like you, jumping into bed with anyone who looks my way?”  


“I only go for the challenging ones. And if you’d been cursed to live as a falcon for 3 years, you would be eager to make use of your human body too.”  


“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Sir James, did I impugn your spotless honor?”  


“Keep talking and I’ll knock your smug hind right off of that high-horse, oh great and noble Sir Steven!”  
Before he could reply, the tiniest breath of a song caught his ear. The voice was sweet and soft as summer. “Do you hear that?”  


"That music? It’s beautiful.”  


Sir Steven’s next words caught in his throat as thunderous footsteps shook the treetops. They had been so deep in conversation that nearly forgot what it was they were tracking. A poor villager had fallen prey to a terrible curse that changed him from an even-tempered blacksmith to dangerous giant. The knights listened intently to determine what direction the ogre was headed. There was a growl followed by a scream. Quicker than lightning the brave men galloped toward the sound of the maiden’s frantic cries.  


The ogre, a great green beast with a thick hide and an even thicker skull, smashed his fist through the elegant stained glass of the library window.  


“Smash! Smash girl. Eat girl.”  


“Oh no you don’t!” Princess Margaret exclaimed as she rammed a heavy candlestick into the beast’s knuckles. It roared, momentarily withdrawing its hand. She was looking around for a better weapon when the hand reached back into the library and grabbed her around the waist. She quickly grabbed all the books she could as it dragged her out the window. She was aiming a heavy tome squarely at the creature’s right eye when the knights arrived.  


“Unhand her, you foul beast.”  


“Smash girl. Then smash you,” the ogre bellowed.  
The skirmish was short and brutal, a few strategic slices and it was hobbled. The creature howled in pain as it loosened its grip on the princess dropping her right into the waiting arms of Sir Steven.  


“Why hello,” he grinned.  


“Romance _after_ please!” huffed Sir James.  
He gave the princess an apologetic shrug, before helping his fellow knight dispatch of the green beast. Careful not to harm the monster any more than necessary, the knights battled until the ogre tired. Exhausted, the creature closed its eyes falling unconscious with an earth-shaking smack. Slowly, the curse ebbed, leaving behind a curly-haired blacksmith in an embarrassingly small amount of clothing. Not stranger to the indignities of enchantment, Sir James silently offered the man a cloak from his saddlebag.  


All this being done, Sir Steven turned back to the woman. Taking in her sparkling eyes, her delicate cheeks, her soft, full lips. Suddenly, without ever consciously deciding to, he began to sing,  


“You’re the fairest dame I’ve ever met  


You were made -”  


“To finish your duet” she answered in that same enchanting soprano he’d heard before the ogre attacked.  


“May I ask your name, My Lady?”  


“Princess Margaret. And yours, brave knight?”  


“Sir Steven. And this is, Sir James. We are eternally at your service, Princess.” He bowed deeply.

\--  
“On no no no, this simply won’t do. She wants to marry a knight? A _knight?!_ He doesn’t even own land. What was the point of all those books if she’s going to be so mind-numbingly naive?” Disgusted, Queen Hela dismissed the insipid scene playing out in her enchanted mirror with a flick of her wrist. 

“Some books have romance in them, Your Majesty. Perhaps she’s been reading those.”

“Yes, thank you for that entirely unhelpful addition, Thor.” she rolled her eyes at the golden furred fox slinking around her shins. 

“What will you do, Your Grace?” croaked the raven on her shoulder.

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? If I let her marry him, he’s a direct threat to my rule. I could kill him... But Margaret would be devastated, she might even refuse the match I choose for her out of some misguided sentimentality.”

“Could you not simply, make him disappear?”

Her lips twisted into a cruel grin as she thought. “That’s an idea. Banish him for all eternity. Tell the girl that he got cold feet. She’ll shed a few tears and come through the whole ordeal a little wiser for the pain. Well done, Loki!” she crooned scritching beneath the bird’s beak. 

And so it was decided, the young princess and the valiant knight would marry in the morning. When Sir Steven arrived on the palace steps he thought his heart might burst from the strain of containing all his joy. He sent Sir James in ahead of him so he could pause to take in the splendor of the Asgard’s gleaming castle. His new home. A destiny beyond his wildest dreams. And within those walls, the sweetest pair of eyes he’d ever seen. But alas, the knight waited too long before reaching for the great wooden door. 

“Oh brave sir, can you help me?” creaked the voice of a frail old woman in a ratty green cloak. 

“Madam, I’m terribly sorry, but I’m already late. I can send a guard out to help you.”

“Oh please young man, it won’t take but a moment. Please, would you assist a poor old woman?”

“I… I suppose I can spare just a minute. What is it you need?”

“Oh, my boy, you are too kind!” she cried, grabbing his elbow and pulling him towards the courtyard, “this way lad, just a few more steps. Here we are.” 

“I don’t understand, what do-” 

“Shhh now, it will all become quite clear.” With a thunderous tap of her cane she called down the bifrost. “You’ve been such a tremendous help, dear. Safe travels,” she cackled as the bifrost whisked him away. Tapping her cane on the ground again, her disguise melted away.

“Where did you send him, Your Majesty?” 

“Somewhere far away. To a place with hardly any magic and no happy endings.”

Falling. He was falling. Hurtling through space at breakneck speed. He yelled, and twisted, and clawed at the air desperate to get purchase on something on anything at all. Just when he thought he’d be falling for all of eternity, he landed with a heavy thud. The ground was hard as stone. It was damp and dark. Had he landed in a dungeon? Above him was such a cacophony as he’d never heard in his life. His eyes followed the sound and over his head, he saw three small circles where light from land above shone through. Picking himself up, he reached for the light and his fingers found a metal plate. He pushed on it tentatively as first, and then harder when he felt it give. Once the metal plate was removed, he hoisted himself out of the dark pit and into the bright light of the day. No beast he’d ever fought, no magic he’d ever encountered could have prepared him for the sight that awaited him  
\-- 

There is nothing worse than Times Square on summer Saturday. Well, other than Times Square on New Year’s Eve. She shuddered just thinking about all those bodies pressed together. Navigating this sweaty cesspool of slow-moving tourists was worth it for the look of pure delight on her six year-old’s face as he excitedly recited all his favorite parts from the play they’d just watched.

“Mommy, look, a knight! Just like in the play! I wanna say hi”

She groaned internally, it seemed like there was a new off-brand disney character posing for photos every day. “You can say a quick hello, but then we have to get home ok?”

“Ok!” He agreed, releasing her hand and bolting in the direction of the man in chainmail. 

“Peter, slow down!” She called as he bounded ahead of her. She felt panic rise in her throat as she reached for her son’s hand only to have an oblivious tourist’s body block her arm. He was out of her sight for only a moment, but when her eyes landed on him, it was too late. In His excitement, Peter had danced off of the sidewalk and into the busy street. 

“Peter!” She screamed, running forward. Startled by his mother’s concern, the boy didn’t see the truck until it was almost on top of him. Horns honked. Tires squealed. Bystanders screamed. And the man in chainmail darted across the road, scooped the boy up, and deposited him safely into his mother’s arms.

“Ma’am,” he smiled

“Hi,” she breathed in shock clutching her child to her chest. Doing her best to quell the hysteria threatening to overtake her, she gently set her son on his feet. Kneeling in front of him she diligently looked him over for injuries, “Peter, sweetie, are you hurt?”

“No, mommy, I’m ok.”

“Ok, are you sure? Nothing hurts, nothing feels funny?”

“No mommy, I’m ok, but-”

“But what, baby?”

“I’m not hurt, but he’s bleeding.” He pointed up at his rescuer. Nat’s eyes followed her son’s finger to the trail of crimson steadily dripping from a gash over the man’s right eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Inspiration](https://thirdsisfics.tumblr.com/post/615964498146312192/erikisright-enchanted-steve-disney-parallels)   
>  [Storyboard](https://thirdsisfics.tumblr.com/post/619575958006120448/romanogers-week-day-1-belated-once-upon-a)


	2. Call That Nurse

“Hey man, are you ok? You’re bleeding pretty bad,” she raised her voice to be heard over the cacophony around them. Peter seemed to be doing alright for the moment, but with the noise, the scare he’d just had, and the crowd pressing in on them, Natasha knew she had to get her son home immediately. 

“I assure you, madam, I’m fine. Tis but a scratch.” He winced as he wiped the blood away with the back of his gloved hand.

“You sure about that?” Had her attention not been focussed on her son’s safety and the rapidly deteriorating health of his rescuer, she might have remarked on how odd it was that a man nearly flattened by a truck was refusing to break character. As it was, she found herself placing a steadying hand on his shoulder as he began to sway. Once he regained his balance, she scooped Peter onto her hip, thankful that he was small for his age. There was no way in hell she’d let him out of her grip until they were safely home. 

“Let's get you to a hospital.” She placed her free hand firmly on the man’s back, and began leading him away from the bustling swirl of bodies. 

“A hos- I can’t go I have to-”

“-Oh, you’re uninsured aren’t you?” She took the look of concern on his face for assent. It made sense, most costumed performers were independent contractors. _I can’t dump him in an ER, if he doesn’t have insurance, there’s no way he could afford the bill. I can’t just leave him here. What kind of example would that set for Peter? ‘Yes, this nice man saved your life and he’s hurt, but that’s not our problem’. I_ could _ask Sharon to take a look at him._ “Ok, no hospitals. My neighbor’s a nurse, we’ll have you back on your feet faster than you can say damsel-in-distress.” 

“I should really-”

She stopped pushing, and turned to look up into his eyes. “It’s ok. We owe you,” she said imbuing the words with as much meaning as she could muster and still coming up short. How could she begin to convey what he’d done for them? How could she put into words the cold horror of almost losing a child or the instant flood of relief at having him safely back in her arms? Like someone had stolen the lungs from her chest and this stranger had handed them back to her. How could she ever hope to replay such a debt? 

He shook his head in protest, setting his jaw against the pain. 

“Come on,” she said in Mom Voice, the one which brooked no rebuttals, “Let’s get you patched up.” 

It said something about her life and, perhaps, about this city that the cab ride home to queens wasn’t the strangest she’d ever experienced. It might not even crack the top 5. Nat didn’t know much about head injuries, but she was reasonably sure you’re not meant to let someone who might have a concussion fall asleep. She needn’t have worried. His rescuer may have been fading fast, but her son could barely contain himself. Sitting in a car buckled up next to a real live knight in shining armor! Peter had _questions_ and her finally had someone with real answers. 

“Do you slay dragons?”

“Sometimes.”

“How big is a dragon?”

“Well, it depends on the age of the dragon and the kind of drag-”

“You don’t hurt _baby_ dragons thorough right?” 

“No, never!” There was something about the way he answered her son’s questions that made her heart ache. Perhaps it was the head injury, but the way he spoke was so guileless. Beyond being patient, he seemed genuinely interested in every thought that popped into Peter’s head and subsequently out of his mouth. 

“Oh good. That wouldn’t be a very brave thing, I don’t think. So, how big is the biggest dragon you ever fought?”

“Hmm… well, I suppose about 70, 80 hands high?”

“Hands?”

“You know how big a tree is?”

“Yep!”

“The dragon was about as tall as two tall trees.”

“Oh. So the dragon didn’t have 70 hands.”

“No. But that would be a fearsome creature.” 

Peter nodded emphatically, his eyes enormous. “Do dragons breathe fire?”

It went on like that for the rest of the ride, past the unlocking of the brown-brick building’s heavy door, up the narrow stairs, and continued right up until the moment Sharon opened the door of the apartment across the hall from Natasha’s place. 

“Is this our wounded knight?” Sharon, a petite woman in her 30s with honey blond hair and gentle face, asked with a knowing smile.

“I’m sorry to bother you on your day off, Sharon, but-”

“But like you said in your text, you didn’t know where else to take him. And like _I_ said, I don’t mind,” She turned her attention from Nat to the strange man in her doorway, “Hi, I’m Sharon, I’ll be your nurse today. Come on in.” She tilted her head towards the interior of her apartment. 

“You’re too kind, Lady Sharon.”

“Is this guy for real?” she lowered her voice while raising her delicate eyebrows. 

Nat could only shrug. “Yes, Aunt Sharon! He’s a real knight and he fights dragons and he rescues people! He rescued me from a truck. It was a little scary, but I’m not hurt and I was very brave, right mom?”

“Yes, baby, you were very brave and you learned a very important lesson too, right?”

“I learned how tall a dragon can be!”

“And you also learned how important it is to never let go of Mommy’s hand when we’re in a crowd of people.”

“Oh. Yes. That too.” 

“Can you be a good helper and show Mr. Steve to the...” she looked at Sharon for approval, Sharon gestured to her (frankly hideous) floral second-hand sofa, “couch?” 

“Yep!”

Sharon opened the first aid kit with a pop and set to work cleaning and dressing the wound before testing for a concussion.

“Do you know how you got this nasty gash?” She asked after checking the dilation of his pupils.

“I landed pretty hard when I arrived in this strange place.”

“Do you have any pain anywhere else? Or any nausea?” Natasha always enjoyed seeing this side of her friend, the way her shoulders expanded, completely in her element. Deft hands working in tandem with bedside manner that was an expert mixture of tender and thorough. 

“There might be a bit of bruising on my hands and knees, but nothing that won’t heal, I assure you.”

“Ok, let’s just take these gloves off and see.” She removed his gloves, carefully inspecting the light discoloration on the heels of his hands. “No scrapes, but I recommend some ice and a lot of rest. No heavy lifting or, um, sword fight for at least a day, ok? It looks like you might have fallen pretty hard, huh?”

“Yes, it was quite the... experience.”

“You remember much from before your fall?”

“Oh yes, I remember everything, Lady Sharon-”

“Just Sharon is fine. I’m not much of a lady.”

“Alright, just Sharon,” he grinned, clearly pleased with his own joke, “I remember everything. I was on my way to exchange my eternal vow with Princess Margaret when an old crone- she must have been a witch- she conjured some kind of magic. It was a force like nothing I’ve ever felt, I was awash in light and color and then I was here in this strange place. Where exactly is this land?”

“You’re in New York City, Queens to be specific” Natasha answered, “hey, Shar, can I talk to you in the kitchen for just a sec?”

“Yep, good idea.” She stood up a little too quickly to appear casual, but neither the man nor the boy seemed to notice.

\--  
The fridge was making a strange whining sound despite having been replaced barely 8 months ago. It was that new kind that magnets wouldn't stick to, so the collection of photos, postcards, and wedding invitations that adorned the older model were now tacked to kitchen wall. Natasha made a mental note to follow up with Sharon about the possible repair later and Sharon flipped the switch on the stovetop fan to cover the sound of their voices. 

“So, is he just really really committed to this character or is he- I’m sorry, I know we’re not supposed to say ‘crazy’ but you know, do you think he’s…” She ran a nervous hand through her shaggy pixie. She’d need a haircut soon if she didn’t want to have an accidental mullet. 

“Expert medical opinion: mild concussion. I mean he could definitely be delusional, but he’s mostly coherent. He doesn’t seem chemically altered in any way. He could be a method actor, stop rolling your eyes, I know how much you hate them. But you did find him in a full costume in Times Square. He could also just be eccentric. My gut feeling is that he’s a little odd, but not dangerous. What’s yours telling you?”

“I don’t know,” she sighed, “you know my gut and I aren’t on speaking terms lately.”

“Fine, what does your mom-sense say?”

She scrunched her nose as she thought,“Weird, but harmless. But _weird_.”

“So weird!” The two women tried in vain to stifle their laughter.

\--  
“Alright, you’re all set. You likely have a mild concussion, but as long as you’re not having trouble standing, walking, or speaking, you’re fine to sleep. Here is some acetaminophen for the pain,” she pressed two travel packs of pills into his hands,“Ointment and extra bandages, make sure you change them twice a day until that cut scabs over. Drink plenty of water, and avoid alcohol and strenuous activity for at least 48 hours. If things suddenly get worse, come back and see me right away, ok?”

“As you wish, madam.”

“Good,” She beamed before turning to her friend, “Nat, I release the patient into your care.”

“Does that mean he’s staying with us, mom?” Peter eagerly tugged on the hem of his mother’s shirt.

“Oh no, I’m sure Mr. Steve is anxious to get home. What’s your address? I can call you a ride.” 

“My address?”

“Where do you live?”

“In the land of Midgard”

 _Oh no._ “Uh huh, and that’s where, exactly?”

“South of the Skrull Mountains and east of the Muir River.”

“So, far far away from here then?” _Goddamn it_

“Yes, I’m sure the journey would be impossible without magic. Thank you both for your kindness and hospitality, but I must return to the place I entered this world and look for a way back. Princess Margaret must be terribly distraught and I’d hate for her to think I’d abandoned her on our wedding day. Or perhaps, do either of you know where I might find a helpful purveyor of magic?” 

Natasha and Sharon shared a look.

“You really shouldn’t be heading back to Times Square right now. Do you have a place to rest for a day or two?”

“Oh, I’m sure I can make camp in an open field or perhaps a quiet wood, if you can just point me in the right direction.” 

“Ok, no. No. Nope. We don’t have any of that,” She took a deep breath, as much as she wanted this stranger out of her life as quickly as possible, she couldn’t let this injured and clearly very confused person wander back out onto the street. Not when she could do something about it. In exchange for seriously discounted rent, Nat had become the building’s tenant-super years ago which meant Natasha had the keys to every apartment in the building and there was an empty apartment being renovated on the first floor. “We have a place you can stay just for two days though.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally the only thing the American Healthcare system is good for is plot devices. 
> 
> Just a short post, but I wanted to get something out before the weekend was over. 
> 
> Thank you for all the comments and kudos! They feed both my soul and my need for dopamine.


	3. Peanut Butter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve discovers he has no way home. Peter introduces his new friend to his neighbors.

“So” She said, unlocking the door to the first floor apartment, “it’s not much to look at right now, you’ll notice a distinct lack of cabinets or kitchen appliances, but it’ll do for a night or two. Bed room is in here, there obviously is no bed, but I think I’ve still got an air mattress I can dig out for you. Over here is the bathroom. You’re in luck, we just finished replacing the shower. Left is hot, right is cold, you can change the water pressure with this knob on the shower head. Ok. That should be everything. I’ll head upstairs and see if I can find you that air mattress,” _and a change of clothes_.  


“Thank you, Lady Natasha. Truly. Your kindness is quite a thing to behold. You really needn’t trouble yourself on my account.” He took her hand as he spoke and gently pressed a kiss to her knuckles.  


“Yeah, uh, no worries,” She stammered. When was the last time someone had kissed her hand? Who did this renfair rando think he was? She was suddenly accurately aware that she was alone with him. Pressing the key into his hand, she bolted towards the door.  


Once safely back in her own apartment, she began rummaging through her closet. She’d sent Peter up to the 4th floor to play with his friend, Ned, so luckily there was no one to hear her cursing as carefully balanced boxes came tumbling off the closet shelf missing her feet by centimeters. It didn’t take long to find the rolled up air mattress, pump, and a spare pair of sheets. The much more difficult task was opening the box labeled “Alex”. It had been more than 4 years, but tell that to the lump forming in her throat. She shook her head, refusing to sink into nostalgia, she ignored the rest of the mementos and went straight for the faded blue FDNY t-shirt. She gently ran her fingers over the time-softened fabric. _It’s a piece of cotton, pull yourself together._ She shoved the box back onto the closet shelf and set to work finding some suitable pants. Her latest mistake, Matt, had left a pair of PJs and some sweatpants behind. He was a good few inches smaller than the man in the downstairs apartment, but Matt had a habit of wearing pants too long for him, so she was pretty sure they’d fit.  


She bundled her care package: air mattress, clothes, granola bars, a cup for water, toothbrush/paste, soap, a towel, toilet paper, and a half-used bottle of bargain brand shampoo into a reusable grocery bag. She hesitated a moment before knocking on the door. “Steve,” she called, “Hey, it’s Nat”  


No answer. She knocked again. “Steve?”  
\--  


As kind as the Lady Natasha and her small son had been, Sir Steven could not stay another moment. Princess Maraget was waiting for him. His heart sank at the thought of her standing alone at an altar searching for a groom who would never appear. He had to return to the place he entered this world and search for a way back. He remembered every turn the golden carriage had made to bring him to this place. “Queens” they had called it. He would simply retrace the carriage’s step to the Square of Times. There he would find his answers. He was sure of it.  


Gone. His way home. His life. It’s all gone. He stood in the middle of the city’s chaos. Strange carriages, unearthly lights, and a head-splitting din were all that awaited him There was no way back.  


Dejected, Sir Steven began his long journey back across the bridge, to the home of the woman who had offered him shelter. Night had fallen before he reached the only building in this god-forsaken land that offered him refuge. The key Lady Natasha had given him didn’t fit the lock on the door. It must only work on the one inside. To the right of the entryway was a list of numbers and letters followed by names. 2A- N. Romanoff. 2A had been the symbol on the Lady Natasha’s door. He gingerly touched the place placard, “Romanoff” must be her family name. To his great astonishment, the square next to her name gave way. There was a shrill chime followed by a voice.  


“Hello?”  


“Hello, oracle” he answered the disembodied voice. “I seek the Lady Natasha of house Romanoff. She has offered me sanctuary within these walls.”  


He heard what sounded like a muffled giggle before the voice spoke again. “Yeah, it’s me. I’ll buzz you in.”  


There was a harsh noise and what sounded like the grinding release of a lock. Cautiously, Sir Steven tried the door again and found it opened easily. Perhaps there was magic in this world after all.  
\--  


“Are you going to go check on, Mr. Steve?” Peter asked through a mouthful of mac’n’cheese.  


“I will. After dinner,” his mother answered pointedly.  


“Good. I don’t think I’d like being all alone in a new place. I think it would be scary.”  


She got up from her chair, and pressed a kiss to the top of her child’s head. “You’re a very sweet kid, you know that?”  


“Mhm.” He hummed, “can I have ice cream after dinner?”  


She couldn’t stop herself from laughing. “One scoop and then you have to brush your teeth.”  


“Deal!”  


After dinner, ice cream, vigorously brushed teeth, PJs, and story time, Peter crashed and Nat headed downstairs to check on their chivalrous guest.  


“Steve?” She rapped her knuckles softly on the door. Only silence answered her. Had he really bolted again? She could see light peeking out from under the doorway. An exploratory twist of the handle revealed that the door was unlocked. She took a tentative step into the apartment. “Mr. Kight man?” She walked a few more paces into the space before calling out “hello?” again.  


“Hello,” a bright voice greeted her as the bathroom door swung open to reveal her new neighbor with a green towel slung low around his hips.  


“Oh, I- I’m so-”  


“That… room the ‘shower’ you called it? What a delightful enchantment! How does it work?” He asked. He seemed completely at ease. Completely unfazed by the presence of a relative stranger while he was relatively nude.  


“Uh, water comes through the pipes. A boiler heats the water.” She answered, trying her best not to follow the water droplets as they traced lazy rivers down his body. She made a silent vow not to tell Sharon about the magic shower incident. If she did, Sharon would ask questions. Questions that might lead to Natasha using the word “chiseled” to describe another human being’s body. She’d rather die.  


“Interesting. Where do the pipes get the water from?”  


“I mean, probably upstate?” She shrugged realizing she didn’t actually know terribly much about the city’s plumbing other than the fact that her water bill was always too damn high. He nodded and she hoped that would be the last of it. “Well, I should go. I just came down to make sure you were settled in ok. Did you figure out the mattress?”  


“I... I did not.” He gave her a sheepish look. She gave him a quick tutorial on how to use the mattress pump. At least it gave her an unproblematic place to focus her attention.  


“Where did you go, earlier?”  


“Hm? Oh. I know you and Lady Sharon advised against it, but I returned to the place in which you found me.”  


Natasha turned her attention away from the inflating mattress to meet his eyes. “You _walked_ to Times Square?”  


“I did indeed. But I found no trace of the Bifrost. No way home. I’m stranded here, it seems.” For the first time since their meeting, she heard bitterness creep into his voice. It was an all too familiar sound.  


“Hey, it could be worse. You could be stranded in Kansas.”  


“What’s Kansas?”  


She chuckled. “Try to get some sleep.” She reached out to touch his shoulder, but thought better of it. Walking to the door she threw one last glance over her shoulder. He looked so lost sitting alone in the gutted apartment. What the hell was she going to do with this man?  
\--  


“Come _on_ , Mr. Steve, you’re going to miss it!” Peter chirped as he tugged the bewildered knight up the building’s narrow staircase. There was no danger of actually missing the food, but when you’re six years-old and your mother is making your favorite meal in your favorite way, you can be forgiven for overstating the urgency.  


Peanut butter. Peter would live on the stuff if his mother didn’t stubbornly insist on silly things like “fruits and vegetables” and “a balanced diet.” Peter still isn’t quite sure what “balanced diet” meant other than “you have to eat something besides peanut butter.” Not that he’s picky, he’ll have you know. Peter likes a wide range of foods, he just happens to have a particular favorite. And the best way in the whole world to eat peanut butter is on pancakes (well, blini if we’re getting specific).  


On the first Sunday of the month, the building hums with life. The neighbors he sees daily as well as the more reclusive ones zip in and out of his mother’s apartment entering with food from their own breakfast tables (usually excellent toppings) and leaving with plates of delicate blini.  
It’s peanut butter pancake day. It’s not a day to be missed.  


“Mr. Steve,” Peter said in his best approximation of _teacher voice_ as he approached the door, “I know you don’t know anyone besides me, mom, and Aunt Sharon, but it’s ok. I’ll tell you everyone’s names. When we say “hi” we don’t shake hands and we only hug people we know really well because of germs.”  


“Germs?”

“A while ago, a lot of people got sick and we couldn’t hug and we had to wear masks.”

“Oh, there was a plague here?” His voice suddenly grave. “That must have been a terrifying time.”

Peter nodded. “But it’s ok now.” They stepped through the door and were hit immediately with smells of fresh coffee, blini, fried plantains, eggs, bacon, everything bagels, and the sounds of laughter, forks clinking lightly on plates, and enthusiastic conversation. 

“Everyone, this is my new friend Mr. Steve,” Peter announced proudly, his arms open wide. “He’s a knight from a far away kingdom. And he wants pancakes.”

Sir Steven smiled amiably while desperately searching the room for a familiar face. He breathed a nearly imperceptible sigh of relief when his eyes landed on Natasha. Making table space for the older guests, she drank her black coffee while leaning casually against the living room wall. A well worn maroon sweater pulled over her hands to protect her skin from the heat of the cup. 

“This is Mr. & Mrs. Mantis,” Peter gestured to a couple who looked to be in their mid sixties. They beamed up at him in response. “You know Aunt Sharon-”

“Good to see you again,” Steve nodded to her.

“And next to Aunt Sharon is Aunt Nebula.” The woman with short blue hair and a sleeve of intricate tattoos in various shades of blue and purple gave him a friendly nod and raised her coffee cup. “Aunt Sharon and Aunt Nebula are getting married in a few months and I’m gonna be the ring bearer. It’s a very important job. And next her is her sister, Ms. Gamora. Ms. Gamora doesn’t live in our building, but she always comes for peanut butter pancake day. Aunt Nebula and Ms. Gamora are from outer space!”

“That’s right, we’re the fiercest women in the galaxy!” Nebula got up from her chair to wrap Peter in a tight embrace. Setting him down she turned to Steve and said in a much lower voice “We’re Dominican.” 

Steve nodded, unsure of what that meant exactly, but gathering that this wasn’t the time for clarification. 

“Peter, are you forgetting your favorite grandpa? Everyone else gets an introduction, but me?” lamented an elderly gentleman clutching his heart in mock offense.

“No! You were next!” Peter shouted eyes wide with sincerity, “That’s Mr. Kurtzberg. He’s the whole building’s grandpa.”  


“And don’t you forget it, punk.” Mr. Kurtzberg said with a grin. 

They took their seats at the table sandwiched between Sharon and the Mantises. “Mom, is Ned coming?”

“Yep, Ned’s family will stop by after their church service gets out, but they can’t stay long. Mrs. Leeds texted, they have a busy day today.”

“Oh. Well that’s ok, as long as Ned gets to meet Mr. Steve.” He leaned over to Steve and whispered conspiratorially, “Ned is my very best friend.”

“Then I shall be honored to meet him.”

The door swung open and a woman in her mid 30s bounded in. “Ms. Monica!” Peter greeted.

“Hey Pete! Hey team! Hey… blond man I don’t know.” She had clearly just come from her morning run. She wore her favorite black and white athletic top paired with star covered black leggings. The white headband which kept her shoulder-length locks out of her face only partially obscured the delicate sheen of sweat on her brow. 

“Ms. Monica, this is Mr. Steve. He’s a knight and he fights dragons and ogres, and he is very brave.”

Monica raised her eyebrows, “Pleasure to make your acquaintance. Do we have a dragon problem in New York that I’m just not aware of?”

“Oh no, not here. Mr. Steve is from far away.”

“Cool.” 

“And, Mr. Steve, this is Ms. Monica. She lives upstairs. She’s a real life scientist! That’s the only thing as cool as being a knight. She works for Photon Labs and she’s changing the whole world.”

“Kid, I have _got_ to start bringing you to networking events. You can be my tiny adorable hype man.” 

“Young Peter would make a most excellent squire, indeed.” Steve concurred, garnering chuckles of approval from the table. 

Monica crouched next to Peter and reached for a plate and a blini. With a mischievous glint in her eyes, she turned her head toward him and sang “We eat an…”

Peter bounced in his seat as he joined in “itsy bitsy teeny weeny peanut butter covered blini,” his smile a mile wide. 

Monica finished filling up her plate before coming to join Natasha at the wall. She gave her neighbor a light hip bump in greeting

“Still good to do the presentation for Peter’s class on Tuesday?” Nat asked.

“You know it!” She answered, hand covering her full mouth. She was trying valiantly to pace herself, but her morning runs always left her famished and it was difficult to slow down once you took your first bite of carby goodness. 

Nat dropped her voice, “You’re getting a late start this morning,”

“Only for the best reasons.” She winked.

“Oh really? Make sure you take ‘reasons’ a bagel.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” she giggled, swiping a bagel off the table as she made her way to the door.

“Elbows!” Peter held out his bent arm out to his neighbor.

“Elbows,” she nodded, giving the boy’s elbow a slight tap with her own. 

“So, Steve, how does a knight in shining armor end up having breakfast in Queens?” Gamora asked.

And so he told them. He told them of ogres and dragons, of his wedding to be, of his untimely encounter with the witch. He explained how he’d found himself in this odd place with no magic and no way home. He spoke of Natasha and Sharon’s generosity, Peter briefly interrupted to make sure everyone knew Mr. Steve had saved his life. When he finished his tale, he found that Mrs. Mantis had taken his hand.

“Well. he must stay,” declared the deeply empathetic woman. Her husband nodded vigorously in agreement. 

“I really don’t think that’s-” 

“He’s lost his home and his love. He must stay here. Don’t worry, our Natasha can get you a job at her theater, isn’t that right Natasha?” She squeezed Steve’s hand reassuringly.

“It’s not _my_ theater and I-”she looked around at the expectant faces gathered around her table. Screw all of them for holding her to her values. “I can ask if they need anyone in box or concessions.”

“See? Our Natasha takes care of everyone,” She grinned.

“You need more clothes? You can’t do a job interview in sweatpants. I’ve got some things you can wear. My good-for-nothing grandson left a half a closet last time he visited. As if I have all the space in the world.”

“Oh please, you adore Joe,” Nebula chided the old man.

“He doesn’t visit anymore!”

“He visits every summer. Illinois isn’t exactly nearby,” She countered.

“No one made him move there. What’s in Illinois besides cornfields… and Chicago.”

“His M.F.A. program.”

“Bah, like the world needs another white male writer! See,” his eyes sparkled with mirth, “I listen to your intersectional feminist agenda.”

Natasha nearly snorted coffee through her nose.

“Is Mr. Steve is staying?” Peter asked, bouncing in his seat.

“Well, seeing as it’s my building and all my tenants have taken a shine to him, yes,” answered Mr. Kurtzberg. Peter leapt out of his chair to throw his arms around his honorary grandfather. 

_Just great,_ Natasha grumbled internally, _looks like I’ll be stuck with Prince Charming forever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is the idea of an entire NYC apartment building sharing a meal every month realistic? No. Not even a little. But is it the world I want to live in? Yes. I come from a long introverted tradition of "I'd rather walk on hot coals than talk to my neighbors," but I've (very grudgingly) come around to the belief that strong communities are integral to a safer, kinder world and that means you sometimes have to talk to people. 
> 
> You know what I haven't grudgingly come around to yet? Proof reading. I'll probably circle back in a couple days to do a quick couple of edits. 
> 
> Thank you for all the comments on the first two chapters!


	4. Let's Hear It For Captain America

Once upon a time in a faraway kingdom there lived a princess who dreamed of adventure. When her studies were interrupted by a fearsome ogre and a brave knight she thought she’d finally found it. She imagined her whole life as she stood in the chapel waiting for the music which would lead her down the aisle to him. As soon as the ceremony was complete, she would bid goodbye to her stepmother and she and her knight would ride off together into the evening air. With every acre that passed beneath her horse’s hooves she would feel the heavy yoke of her royal life slip further and further from her shoulders. Forests would give way to great rolling fields. She would count the stars above her head and tell her new husband the names of every constellation she could find. They would travel far and wide. To all the places she’d read of in her books. To the ones that no map had charted. She would smell the salt air of the sea for the first time in her life. She would feel the blazing desert sun. She would brandish a sword and face off against fearsome beasts. She would get to know the people she had been kept apart from her whole life. She would sleep beneath trees and wake with leaves in her hair. In her pursuit of action she would find peace. Perhaps even love. 

She waited and dreamed and dreamed and waited. But the music never came. When she peaked her head through the door to ascertain the cause of the hold-up, she found only an impatient priest having a heated discussion with her beloved’s erstwhile compatriot, Sir James. No sign of the man she was to marry. The way they both whipped their heads toward the princess you’d think the men had heard the princess’s hopes shattering. Her knight wasn’t coming. 

She let the grief wash over her. She counted the breaths. _Inhale exhale_ one _inhale exhale_ two _inhale hold and exhale_ three. And then she did exactly what she’d been trained to do her whole life; she carried on. Straightening her shoulders, she marched down the aisle in search of answers. Her footsteps echoed on the stone floor. The priest took one look at the set of her jaw and made a small bow and excused himself, eager to escape the trajectory of the princess's ire.

“Where the devil is he?”

“I don’t know. But I do know there’s nowhere he’d rather be than here, Your Highness. Steve wouldn’t run. He never runs. Even when it behooves him to do so. There was this one time, we were surrounded by- but I can see from your expression that this isn’t the time to reminisce. What I mean to say is, if he isn’t here, something has gone terribly wrong.”

The princess’s eyes shone with mirth in spite of herself. This revelation should have been devastating, but she couldn’t tamp down the excitement bubbling in her stomach. She had found her adventure after all. “Well then, Sir James,” she extended her arm to him, “care to join me on a quest to find our missing knight?”

“It would be my honor, Your Highness.”  
\--

Sam Wilson fumbled in the darkness to silence his phone’s screeching alarm. He groaned and swung his legs over the side of the bed feeling the places where the weathered mattress dipped and sagged. He needed a new one. His back reminded him of that fact every day. He stood and stretched his stiff muscles with an exaggerated yawn before shuffling off to make himself coffee. He rubbed his eyes with his free hand as he absentmindedly topped his mug off with the oat milk creamer the new kids (Khan and Chavez) had badgered him into trying. He made a show of being annoyed about it in the office, but in truth he was thankful for the recommendation. In the last year his lactose intolerance had gone from mild inconvenience to ruiner of days and he’d never found the kind of almond milk that didn’t taste like liquid sadness. 

As much as he liked to tease his young colleagues about their bright-eyed optimism, he was envious. Sam used to have that same fire, the confidence that only the young have that they’ll be the generation to finally get it right. These days he’s just bone crushingly tired. He reminds himself each day that things are better now than they’ve ever been, they have more resources now, more staff, the tide of public opinion has shifted dramatically and if this momentum keeps up he might see real lasting change in his lifetime. But. But a decade and a half of this work has made him wary of the promises of politicians. But more staff means more people for him to train. More resources means they're expected to take on even more cases. As if every social worker weren’t already doing the job of six people on half of a reasonable salary. Even though they’d made more progress in the last two years than he’d seen in his entire career, the work isn't anywhere close to done. Some days it feels like every time he cut one head off this monster, two more grew back in its place. But watching Chavez and Khan throw themselves into this fight, watching them not only navigate this broken system, but actually working to fix it, that give him hope. No matter how exhausted he was, no matter how the knots in his back throbbed, hope was a damn good reason to get out of bed.

He’d barely set foot into the office before the first call of the day came in. A conflict deescalation near Times Square. According to the civilian who called it in, there are two assailants at least one of whom is carrying a deadly weapon. Though the caller’s actual words were “two white renfair nuts waving a sword at busses.” He grabbed Jefferson, a newer member of the crisis response team, hailed a cab, and set off in the direction of one of his least-favorite parts of the city. Jefferson was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a deep soothing voice and what Sam liked to call “Big Dad Energy,” a combination that made him an ideal partner for deescalating potentially violent incidents. 

Sam threw a glance at his partner as they exited the cab at the intersection the caller had given them. “Would you loosen up a little, you look like a cop.”

“I _was_ a cop,” Jefferson replied, slipping his aviator sunglasses on as he fell into step beside Sam.

“Well you’re not anymore. And I’m confiscating these,” he admonished, snatching the offending shades and earning a disgruntled dad face in response, “we need to get you a pair of wayfarers or anything that doesn’t make you look like a nark.”

“You know what, I know you’re mostly kidding, but I’m too tired to argue with you.”

“Miles still not sleeping through the night?

“Full sleep regression. The kid is up every four hours. It’s brutal.”

“You’re just trying to guilt me into giving your shades back aren’t you?”

“I am shocked. Shocked and offended by your spurious allegations, Mr. Wilson!” he paused, “unless it’s working.”

Sam’s laughter was suddenly cut short by the sight in front of him. A bus with large scrapes down the sides blocking the road, its passengers and driver huddled together on the sidewalk, a fire hydrant spewing water into the gutters, and a man and woman in vaguely medieval garb waving swords in the terrified faces of construction workers. 

“Bet you $20 that this is the weirdest thing we’ll see this week.”

“I feel bad taking money from a sleep-deprived father. I mean, I will absolutely cash in when this barely makes the top three. But just know that I’ll feel guilty when I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter this time round. Hoping brief updates will spend less time half-finished in my draft folder.
> 
> Please forgive me for my treatment of almond milk in this chapter. Sam's hatred of almond milk is not reflective of my personal feelings.


	5. How to Succeed in Show Business Without Really Trying My Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve starts a new job. Natasha has a mortifying experience in central Park.

Natasha found herself absentmindedly fiddling with the spot in the hall where the paint had peeled away while she waited for her son to finish shoving books into his backpack. She supposed she should paint over it eventually, but there was something comforting about the feeling of the uneven edges under her finger tips. Besides that, she liked the shape of it; it always looked to her like a bird with its wings outstretched. A hawk or a falcon perhaps. Peter shuffled out of his room with an overstuffed backpack and a satisfied grin plastered on his face. God, she hoped he’d hold onto this. This curiosity. The way he ran into his days head-first without hesitation. Not every child would want to spend their summer days at school-run S.T.E.A.M. day camp, but Peter had always been very particular about what he liked. 

Steve was waiting outside her door sharply dressed in Mr. Kurtzberg’s grandson’s clothes. Slacks and a dark blue button up. She wondered how the fabric felt to him. Assuming she believed (she didn’t) that he actually did come from another world, surely machine sewn cotton would feel different than anything he’d worn in his old life. Did the buttons feel flimsy when he was used to lacing himself into his garments? Did he feel naked without the familiar weight of chainmail or was its absence liberating? No matter what he thought of his loaned vestments, he certainly looked the part. Now if he could just keep his mouth shut about teleportation rainbows and slaying dragons, he might actually be able to pull this off without getting them both fired. Well, Nick would never fire _her_ but he’d mock her until the end of time and that was much worse.

She’d already taken him through the basics. Frequently used terms for money. The absence of a barter system used to supplement a lack of “coin” as he’d put it. Credit cards: what they looked like, what they were for. The theater was cashless, so that saved lessons on making change. What are computers and what to expect. Basic layout of the space, common etiquette, terms like “patron”, “box-office”, "will call" ,“black box”, "main-stage” and “front of house.” He’d attended a few plays in his homeland so he wasn’t completely unfamiliar with the idea. That or he was an actor who was lying to her face. Either way, he’d set foot in some type of theater before.

“Ready for your first day, Mr. Steve?” Peter asked. 

“A knight must always be ready for the next challenge ahead of him,” Sir Steven replied.

 _So that’s a no then_ thought Natasha. “Alright, let’s go. We’ve gotta get this little guy to class and then you and I have a date with that maker of kings and breaker of dreams, old broadway.” Nat said in her best impression of a 1930s radio announcer. 

“A date?” Steve looked puzzled.

“No. I mean yes, but not a _date_ date.”

“Mommy,” Peter peered up at her, “that doesn’t make sense.”

Always forthright, that boy of hers. “I mean we have an appointment.”

“Ok!” Peter shouted before bolting toward the stairs. 

\--  
There was a deadly silence in the palace once Thor finished speaking. He and Loki had drawn lots to determine which of them would have the unpleasant task of delivering the news of Princess Margaret's disappearance to their queen. Loki had won, of course. Unsurprising as he was a consummate cheater. “What do you mean they’re gone?” She didn’t raise her voice. She never had to, unless she needed to be heard across a great battlefield. She could cover a June day in mid-winter frost with the turn of her head. Such was real power. 

Still, her voice echoed across the cavernous throne room. Thor shivered despite his coat of golden fur. The chartreuse flames atop the many torches offered no warmth, but only served to illuminate the chamber with a sickly glow. Thor had often thought it reminiscent of a tomb. He cowered under the Queen’s sharp gaze. “Disappeared, your majesty. Both the princess and the other knight. I believe they’ve set out in search of the one you banished.”

With a flick of her wrist she summoned her magic, an acid green tendril of energy, to wrap itself around him and bring the poor creature level with her eyes. She gently reached out a long elegant finger to caress the animal’s cheek, all honey and venom. “Now, my sweet familiar, you didn’t happen to tell my step-daughter where I sent her would-be prince did you?”

“No! No, Your Majesty, I swear it!” Thor recoiled at her touch. One day, she would have to divine a way to bottle fear. Such a sweet elixir; she could live on it for weeks.

“If I may,” croaked the raven as he came to perch on her armrest, “the bifrost’s guardian would seem the most likely culprit. He’s always had a soft spot for Princess Margaret.”

“Well then,” she smiled daggers as she spoke, “time to pay old Skurge a visit.”

\--

Darcy Lewis struggled to remain upright. She’d been out of bed long enough that the show she was making of slumping against the ledge of the will call booth was primarily for dramatic effect. She certainly looked the part: hair elegantly disheveled, the sunglasses she wore despite being indoors sliding down her nose as she took labored sips of her sweet and light coffee. When she’d stopped by her usual coffee cart on the way in, Bijan had made an exaggerating gesture of rubbing his eyes before lightly teasing her for being out of bed so early. She wouldn’t have had to be here at this ungodly hour of before noon if she didn’t have to train the new hire and though she was far too professional to complain outright (they were a bit short-staffed, after all) she was not above making a visual statement about her displeasure. 

_Ever the performance artist_ , Nat thought when she caught sight of her. “Darcy Lewis,” she put on her most chipper voice to balance out Darcy’s apparent lethargy, “meet your favorite new trainee: Steve Rogers!” She gestured to Steve with the flourish of a ringmaster. 

“How do you do, Steve Rogers?” Darcy peered at him over the rim of her shades.

Steve shot a quick glance at Natasha. A look of _how do I do what?_ painted all over his face. 

“Well,” Nat said, coming to his rescue, “I don’t want to keep you too long. I’ll leave Steve in your capable hands. He’s starting from zero, but he’s a quick learner. Aren’t you, Steve?”

“Yes, ma’am. And I look forward to learning from you, Ms. Lewis,” Steve said with such a gentle smile Nat could practically see Darcy melt. 

“Where on Earth did you find this guy?”

“Would you believe me if I said Times Square?” Nat raised an eyebrow and Darcy laughed in response. “Play nice, kids!”

Darcy studied her new trainee, doing a mental inventory as he watched Natasha retreat to her office. Charming, friendly, easy on the eyes, there were definitely worse candidates for the gig. She’d have to teach him to school his expressions if he wanted to make it in customer service, though. Nat had said he was a very recent immigrant from a small country she'd had never heard of. His accent sounded American but there were word choices and parts of his syntax that were decidedly foreign. There was something strange about him she couldn’t quite name, like he was from another time rather than another place. _Or maybe he’s a very polite extraterrestrial_. She made a show cleaning her glasses to hide her amusement.

“Come on, New Guy, let’s get you the grand tour.”

\--

She didn’t have to look up from her work to know the Artistic Director had paid her a visit. “Uh oh, something must be terribly wrong if you’re already at my desk glowering,” she said as she continued typing.

“I’m not glowering.”

She glanced up at that. “Sorry. Looming.”

“The gala is barely a month out and you haven’t told Hill if you’re bringing a plus one. We need that headcount yesterday.”

“That’s not true. I told Hill I’m not bringing anyone including myself.”

“I’m electing to ignore the fact that you just told your boss you’re not planning to attend the fundraising gala which is mandatory for all staff. And even if it wasn’t, it would absolutely be mandatory for you. I need you to bring Stark in.”

“Billionaires are inherently unethical.”

“Agreed.”

“Great, so you understand why I’m not going.”

“You’re going, Romanoff. You’re going to get dressed up, you’re going to eat hors d'oeuvres, and you’re going to schmooze with Tony Stark until he makes a sizable donation. Do not make that face at me. If it makes you feel better, convince him to give enough of his dragon’s hoard of cash to be 999 whatever millionaire.”

“You know how he made that money, right?”

“Nat.”

“I know. I know. We’ve still got red in our ledger from COVID.”

“You’re damn right. You want to expand the rush program and student matinees? You want to do the new Gurira piece next season? Then we need that capital. It’s donors or we’re doing the Cabaret revival with Ryan Reynolds.”

“Oh that’s an image I need scrubbed from my brain.”

“Now you understand the gravity of the situation.”

“I don’t know if I can find a sitter for Peter.”

“Bring him along. And while you’re at it, really play up the dead firefighter dad backstory. Stark is an avid FDNY supporter.”

“You want me to use my dead husband to get _donations_?” She asked, eerily calm.

“You want to see Reynolds in fishnets?” 

“I mean that actually sounds fine.”

“Romanoff.”

“Fine. I’ll be there, but the second my kid gets tired, bored, or cranky I’m out.”

Without another word, Artistic Director Fury nodded and strode out of the room- his long black leather coat billowing behind him. Fury was nothing if not dramatic.

Morning melted seamlessly into early afternoon. It wasn’t until her computer chimed with a slack message that she paid any attention to the time.

 **Darcy** 1:00 p.m.  
I’m taking lunch. Don’t tell Fury, but I’m really going to stretch this one out. Come get your himbo  
**Darcy** 1:01 p.m.  
JK he’s not a himbo. He picked up tessitura in under an hour so he’s objectively not a dummy. Very polite though... But seriously come get him because I’m bolting  
\--  
It was a perfect day. Sunny, not too humid. The trees were a kind of youthful abundant green that made her heart ache. These early summer days were numbered, it would soon be muggy, miserable, and likely a temperature that her neighbor, Nebula, was fond of calling “a hundred and boob-sweat degrees.” The last pleasant days of the season were a thing to treasure. Days like this one called for Central Park lunch trips. It was only about a 10 minute walk from the theater to the park assuming you walked at Natasha’s speed and didn’t get stuck behind too many lumbering tourists. 

Steve had been catching her up on his training with Darcy on the way over. She was going to start him ushering as it required the least institutional knowledge and move him to other positions as he became more familiar with the theater and its offerings. He seemed genuinely excited to be receiving an employee manual at the end of the day. Knights did love a code of conduct, Nat supposed. They were in line for waffles when the conversation shifted. 

“Natasha?”

“Hm?”

“What’s a _date_ date?” He asked the question like he was unsure whether or not words really fit in his mouth

“You don’t have dates in Midgard? Huh. Well, "date" can just mean an appointment, which is what I meant earlier, but when people say “date” most of the time they mean an activity where two people who are interested in each other romantically get together usually with the intention of getting to know each other better. Often there’s food and or drinks involved. It’s like… courting. Does that make sense?”

“Yes it does. Thank you for elaborating, Natasha.” 

“What’s got you thinking about dates? Reminiscing about your true love?” She asked after putting their orders in. 

“Princess Margaret and I never went on any dates or date dates. But she is always in my heart. One day I shall find my way back to her. This world may be devoid of enchantments, but true love is the most powerful magic there is. We will find a way.” Steve’s eyes drifted wistfully over the grassy knolls of Central Park.

“Hold on. Back up a sec,” Nat touched his shoulder, bringing his attention back to the present. “You mean you didn’t go out because she’s royalty, but you spent time together right? Like you were in her princess guard or something?”

“No, we met when I rescued her from a fearsome ogre. I was banished to this realm the day after.”

“But. No. You said you were banished on your wedding day.”

“That’s right.”

“You’re telling me you met a woman for the first time in your life. You had one conversation with her and you were going to _marry_ her the next day?!”

“Of course. It was true love.” Steve shrugged.

Natasha froze. She thought her skull might split open. A day. He’d known this woman a day. She’d never considered herself a romantic by any means, but this… this was something else.

“Order 616!” Natasha picked up their waffles and returned to Steve in a fugue state. 

“Steve that’s... that’s not how love works. You have to get to know someone to really love them. You can become infatuated instantly, but love? Love takes time, and work, and vulnerability, and trust and even then it doesn’t always work out just because it feels true at the time.” 

They meandered through the park as they ate their waffles. Steve mulled over her treatise on love as he chewed. 

“Do you have a true love, Lady Natasha?”

“Do I have a? Oh boy.” She wiped her face before discarding the remains of her lunch in a nearby garbage bin. “Look, I’ve got a lot of love in my life and all of it is true, but the romantic kind? I don’t have the best luck there. My most recent ex, Matt, says he wants to get back together... but I don’t know.”

“Do you love him?”

“Matt’s a good guy. Maybe too good in some ways? He’s kinda married to his work, which I get, he does stuff that actually matters. He helps people. But it’s hard to balance, especially with a kid at home. He always had one foot out the door when we were together. He wants to really try this time but… I don’t know. I like him, I do, but I don’t know about trying for love.”

It had been a strange few days. Some of the most bizarre days Nat had experienced in her already rather eventful life. But nothing. Nothing in the world could have prepared her for what Sir Steven the former Knight began to do in the middle of Central Park. Sir Steven began to sing. It was an uptempo number she’d describe as broadway standard with a pop sensibility. She wanted the earth to swallow her whole.

“How do you know that you love him,” he belted

“Steve what are you doing?”

“How does he know that you caaaaare,”

“Steve. People are staring at us. Do you realize how hard it is to make New Yorkers stare at you? Do you know how weird that is?”

But he blithely continued his tune about how to know you’re in love, all the small, tender ways to show affection. By the time the chorus rolled around for the second time, several buskers had joined in. Steel drums, a guitarist, even an older man on trombone. 

“How do they know this song? Am I the only one who has never heard this song before?”

Other denizens of central park joined them for the thor chorus. Backing vocals and a full dance ensemble. Swirled around them.

“Is this a flash mob? I thought people stopped doing flash mobs in 2010. Oh no, no thank you, I don’t need a flower crown, miss, I’m an adult woman who might be having a mental breakdown, not a college student at coachella.” Despite her protestations a delicate circlet of daisies was placed atop Natasha’s head as the musical number ended with a triumphant flourish. As quickly as they’d joined them, the ensemble dissipated. They returned to their solitary lives as if nothing had happened at all. Natasha wondered idly if she should perhaps book herself the next available CT Scan.  
“Ms. Lewis mentioned there is soon to be a ball and all employees of the theater are required to be in attendance.” 

“Yeah, the gala is our biggest fundraising event of the year. It’s fairytale themed, so you’ll fit right in,” she teased.

“If what you had with Matt is not true love, perhaps you’ll find yours at the ball. I’ve often heard that nothing fosters affection so well as dancing.”

“I don’t dance in the town anymore, Steve.”

“Whyever not?” he asked with that same gentle honesty that made her trust him almost instantly. 

She sighed, “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you some other time. We’d better be heading back. The hour’s nearly up.”

“As you wish, Lady Natasha.”

“Come on, Prince Charming,” she chortled, hooking her arm around his elbow, “let’s get you back inside before all the peasant girls swoon.” 

\--  
The body of the former bifrost guardian lay in an ungainly heap. Queen Hela could hardly be blamed for acting rashly. He had been making excuses. The queen despised excuses. She had thought, when she’d placed him in charge of the bifrost, that his affection for the flotsam and jetsam which slipped through the realms coupled with his survival instinct would keep him in line. But Skurge was a man and men were weak. It was all so terribly disappointing. 

“Now, where were we?” She clapped her hands together as she turned to her familiars. “Oh yes, that’s right. Our little rescue mission. Who’s ready to kill a meddlesome night and rescue our lovely princess, hm?”

“Must we kill him, My Queen?”

“Oh don’t go sentimental on me now, Loki, my sweet harbinger of mischief. It’s for the good of the realm,” she crooned. Her familiars nodded in solemn agreement. 

“Hm… I can’t send you out into the new realm like this. To have any hope of finding our wayward girl, you’ll need an upgrade.” The queen began to chant in a language as old as the land itself. Loki felt a tingling sensation in his feathers like the herald of an oncoming storm. Thor felt a mounting pressure in his ears and electricity shoot down his spine. The sky boiled. There was a mighty crack of thunder that shook the walls around them. The queen’s familiars began to change shape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of notes: I'm making a terrible impulsive decision to post this chapter without doing a final round of edits so I will likely return and say "my god what have I done" and fix the mistakes I'm too sleep deprived to see later this weekend. 
> 
> This likely doesn't matter to anyone one but me, but let me know if you have questions about the the theater. So instead of just a standard broadway theater, we've set Nat's job in a theater company which has a broadway house (broadway, off-broadway etc are distinguished by the number of seats in the the theater). The business model is closer to Lincoln Center, Signature, or The Public (off-bway), or a top tier LORT company rather than say The Gershwin. Some of the way I've designed the theater is very much in line with way real companies run, some of it for narrative ease, and some of it is my own bit of "but it SHOULD run this way, damn it!" For example, typically, a lot of front of house jobs are pretty separate and require different levels of experience/software familiarity, but that's always seemed silly to me. Just train your folks for all the things. 
> 
> We'll pick back up with Sam, Peggy, and Bucky and well ad Loki and Thor in the next chapter. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Let me know if you have thoughts in the comment section. I love hearing from you!


	6. Pie, Fair Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Princess Margaret and Sir James make their way in the strange new world. Loki and Thor arrive in the city and begin their search for the princess.

“You think they’re going to get right back dueling with busses the minute we turn our backs?” Jefferson asked. Though he was ostensibly directing the question to Sam, the tone of his voice made it clear he wanted the duelists in question to hear every word. 

“Not a chance. First of all, we’re holding on to their weapons. Second, we’ve all come to an understanding about the benefits of these ‘mechanical beasts’ here. And third, you can’t help but trust these two. Look at those blue eyes. They let you know where home is.” Sam flashed a debonair grin at the man he’d just wrested the sword from. It was an old trick, but an effective one for keeping would-be troublemakers on the straight and narrow. _This guy, he doesn’t trust you, but I do. I’m on your side. You’ll prove me right, won’t you?_ “Here’s my number. Call me the next time you get the urge to go all Don Quixote on the MTA.”

Sir James took the card with a nod. He didn’t quite understand the details of the handsome stranger’s last statement, but he gathered from context that the white rectangle in his hand must contain some method of contact for the men who’d interceded in their battle with the beast called “bus” the villagers here used for transport. He tucked the card into his coin purse. He would need to keep hold of it if they were to have any chance of getting their weapons returned. And if the safe return of his and the princess’ swords meant another meeting with the peace-keeper, Sir James couldn’t say he minded in the least. 

Once the men had receded from view, Sir James was able to turn his attention to what really mattered, the hunger threatening to burn a hole in his stomach. But where in this strange metal kingdom would he find a much-needed repast? He turned slowly to scan his surroundings. Surely there must be a tavern or a baker’s shop somewhere. His eyes fell on a most unnatural sight. Five letters emitting an eerie glow atop a building, smaller than the rest, covered in what looked like polished armor. Out front were three sets of tables, all vacant but one. A woman in a mint green dress with a high peach collar and matching apron set a slice of fruit-filled pastry in front of the patron. What the weary knight would not do for just a mouthful of a fresh fruit pie.

“Your Highness?”

“Yes, Sir James?” 

“Am I correct in assuming that since you were anticipating spending much of the day at a wedding feast, you have not yet eaten today?”

For a moment the princess appeared to be lost in thought. “Why, yes, now that I think about it.”

“Let us find you some nourishment. Lest your royal self go mad with hunger.” He offered his arm. She eyed the appendage suspiciously. 

“Should we not begin the search for Sir Steven?”

“Trust me, we won’t be of any use until we’ve eaten.” 

“I suppose that does make a certain kind of sense,” She wrapped her delicate fingers gently around his forearm. “Lead on, Knight.”

“As my queen commands,” he replied with a wink. She may not have had the title just yet, but Princess Margaret had “queen” woven into the fabric of her being. 

The comely tavern maid, Angie, according to the small scroll pinned to her dress ushered them to a booth with a smile. 

“Do you know what you’d like or do you need a minute with the menu?” She asked.

“Pie, fair lady,” Sir James requested, all courtly charm despite his attention wandering to the display case filled with tantalizing pastry.

“We got chocolate, pumpkin, blueberry, cherry, apple, peach, and sweet potato. Which tickles your fancy?”

“Which is your favorite, miss?” Princess Margaret asked. Ever the diplomat. 

“Two slices of cherry coming up,” she made a note on what appeared to be a miniature book in her hand bounced off to fetch their sustenance. Sir James didn’t miss the way the Princess’ eyes followed the maid’s retreating frame. 

“You haven’t spent much time out in the world, have you?”

“Am I that obvious? No, I’m afraid I’ve been rather committed to my studies. And Step-Mother is ever so protective. I’ve never been much of anywhere. Least of all a place as foreign as this. What about you? You must have seen some incredible sights in your adventures with Sir Steven.”

“I’ve seen my share. Still, running away to another world with a princess is without a doubt the second strangest situation I’ve gotten myself into.”

“Whatever was the first?”

Now there was a long story. And not a tale Sir James particularly enjoyed telling. But Princess Margaret’s face was a mix of angelic beauty and dogged determination which made refusal nearly impossible. 

“I ran into a bit of trouble with a somewhat notorious group of sorcerers. Lost an arm in the process. Spent the better part of three years under a curse. Steve never gave up searching for me. When he found me, I was so far gone I could barely remember what it was like to be human. He’s not one to dig up the past, but he nearly went mad on the quest to locate an enchantress powerful enough to break the spell. Before you ask, the left one’s the enchanted one. Courtesy of the Scarlet Witch.” There was reverence in that title, spoken like a prayer. Equal parts gratitude an awe. 

Before the princess could ask any of the myriad questions he was sure were on the tip of her tongue, Angie set two heavenly plates of cherry pie in front of them.

“Two slices of cherry on the house. Waiting on you two is the only interesting thing that’s happened in this place in months.”

“You’re too kind, miss,” the princess blushed.

“I am. It’s my tragic flaw. Enjoy!” with a cheery wave she turned on her heel and made her rounds to her other patrons. 

“How come I never get free pie, Angie?” asked an elderly man in what sounded like mock offense.

“Because you’re diabetic, Stan. You think I’m gonna assassinate my best tipper?”

The sounds of the diner faded into the background as they ate. There might not be an abundance of magic in this new world, Sir James could feel the lack manifesting in a dull ache and a stiffening of the spell-spun muscles of his left arm, but he was certain he could taste some enchantment in the perfect mix of tart and sweet fruit sandwiched between golden, flakey crust. The pastry was a most welcome gift, but Princess Margaret insisted that they leave a few gold pieces for the remarkable young woman anyway. For the third time that day, Sir James found himself utterly unable to disagree.

\--

Thor heard a sickening pop as shoulder smacked into the concrete. Loki, lucky bastard that he was, landed lightly on his feet a millisecond after. Thor pulled himself up and winced less from the pain than from the sheer overstimulation. The garish lights, the incessant noise, the deeply unpleasant odors, he suddenly understood why the queen had chosen to banish the offending knight to this miserable realm. 

“So,” he said rubbing his new and rather massive hands together, “where do we find them?”

“How should I know? I’m not a witch.” Loki scowled and crossed his now lanky arms in front of his chest. 

“No, then why are you dressed like one?” Thor couldn’t suppress a laugh. 

Loki opened his mouth to object and then realized he had absolutely no clue how he was dressed. Much to his relief, he hadn’t lost his keen eyesight in the transformation. He easily spotted the glint of a reflective surface and pulled his brother over to a store window so they could take stock of their dramatically altered appearances.

“There is something about these vestments that does imply the use of magics, but I can’t say I mind. I rather think the color scheme suits me. You seem excessively broad. I do hope that’s a style choice and the queen does not expect us to engage in physical combat.”

“I’m pleased not to be entirely hairless about the face,” Thor declared stroking his chin, “a hairless muzzle makes one feel terribly vulnerable.” 

“I wouldn’t know,” Loki shrugged, “Thor?”

“Yes, brother?”

Loki regarded their reflections in deep contemplation. “Do you suppose we’re attractive?”

“I don’t know. I can’t say I have any idea what the beauty standards world might be.” 

Mischief gleamed in his brother’s eyes. “Care to make a wager?”

“Perhaps,” Thor tried to sound skeptical, but the prospect of a bet was too enticing. Even if wagers with Loki almost always ended poorly.

“I think we are two extremely handsome specimens. If I am correct, I win. If I’m wrong, you win.”

“What would the terms be?” 

“If I win you must do my share of gathering the ingredients for her majesty’s potions for a fortnight once we return home. If you win, I must do the same for you.”

Thor considered the offer. The stakes were not overly high and even if he lost it would be because he made such a handsome human. That would surely provide balm to the wound of increased labor.

“Deal,” he grinned and shook his brother’s hand. The toothy smile he received in return gave him some misgivings, but with Loki it was futile to worry about whether or not he had ulterior motives. He did. Always. Best to never promise more than you were willing to lose and learn to enjoy the inevitable twist in the game. “Now, we have a princess to find.”

“Excuse me, peasant,” Loki called to a man in a chartreuse vest who appeared to be performing some kind of maintenance on the street nearest to where the Bifrost deposited them, “we’re looking for a man and a woman who would have come through here in peculiar dress”

“What d’ya mean peculiar? We see all types here you gotta get more specific.”

“A knight and a princess.”

“Oh yeah! You don’t see that every day,” another construction worker joined in, “these two decide to sword fight a freakin bus. That broad was something else, you see the set of-”

In the space of a blink, Loki drew a dagger from his sleeve and brandished it at the second man’s throat. “That _broad_ is the princess of the twin kingdoms of Midgard and Asgard. Have a care how you speak.” he snarled through gritted teeth.

“Woah woah woah, take it easy pal. No disrespect.”

Thor gently tugged his brother’s arm until he stepped back and sheathed his dagger, tucking it back into his sleeve. With his weapon hidden, he effortlessly donned a winning grin and a jovial affect that reminded Thor unfavorably of the sycophants at court. “Now, gentlemen, might you be so kind as to point us in the direction you saw them depart?”

He needn’t have asked. Before either man could reply, they heard the unmistakable sound of Princess Margaret’s seraphic soprano. 

“We’ll be off then. Thank you for your time. Carry on.” 

Thor had always loved the princess’s voice. In addition to being compelling, it had made it easy for him to keep an eye on her when she’d taken up exploring the wilder parts of the forests near the palace in her early teens. Unlike the days of her youthful expeditions, however, the princess was not alone in her song. She was joined by a man’s voice. Strong and heroic, but it didn’t seem to fit quite right with hers. No, it wasn’t that the voice was wrong, it was that they were singing different songs. By the time Thor and Loki had caught up to them, they’d stopped singing all together. 

“Well, that key does nothing for me. If you’d just harmonize, I think we’d really-”

Thor cleared his throat pointedly. “Your Highness,” he bowed deeply and his brother followed suit.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“Princess, surely you recognize your old friends. We might be missing a few feathers and a bit of fur, but surely we cannot look so different,” Loki drawled.

“My stars! Loki? Thor? You’re so… tall,” she peered up at them, her mouth hanging open in a decidedly unprincesslike manner. 

Before she could speak another word, her step-mother’s erstwhile familiars crushed her in a tight embrace. Sir James stood to the side feeling very much like he was intruding on a private family moment.

“Why have you come here? And why so altered?” She asked upon her release. 

“Come now, surely you did not believe that the princess disappearing on her wedding day would go unnoticed? Your step-mother was terribly worried. She sent us to assist you.”

“How, precisely, were you instructed to assist?” Sir James asked, a veil of politeness stretched paper thin over the icy suspicion in his words.

“We are to find Princess Margaret’s wayward knight and we are to bring the princess home.” It wasn’t a lie. There simply happened to be a crucial detail missing. The knight didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he nodded his head in agreement. That would do. For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and comments! Please let me know if there's anything you liked or anything that was unclear. The chapter titles will continue being terrible puns based on the names of plays so if you have any suggestions, please drop a comment, I'd love to hear them! I considered just calling this chapter "Waitress" but decided that an unaltered musical title broke the rule.
> 
> I'm trying to keep my updates on the shorter side. First because I hope that will allow me to remain more consistent in my schedule (and tone) and because the longer the chapter the more errors I miss in editing. 
> 
> Anybody feel like beta-ing this story? In payment, I can offer my services a beta-reader for something you're working on or make you promo posters. [Message me](https://thirdsisfics.tumblr.com/) if you're interested.


	7. The Sass Menagerie

Sun-drenched Sunday afternoons meant one thing in Sharon and Nebula’s home: Habichuelas Guisadas. On this particular Sunday, Peter had appointed himself Nebula’s apprentice while his mother worked to patch the drywall sullied by the now remedied leaking plumbing in the apartment one floor up. She had learned the hard way to measure the spices before turning them over to her eager chef in training, tasting and adding more herself when necessary. She looked up from the simmering pot when she heard a knock on the door Nat had deliberately propped open to make it easier to lug the tools, ladder, and paint in and out. The building’s newest addition was certainly polite. Strange. But polite. 

Natasha was so focussed on her work she didn’t notice the knock. There was something quite satisfying about sanding down the joint compound. She leaned forward just a hair too far when smoothing out a stubborn bit on the far edge of the patch. Her stomach lurched as the ladder wobbled before being caught by two silent, steady hands. 

“Thanks, Nebula, you’re a literal life-saver,” she said without looking down. Continuing to sand now that her fear of tumbling forward had been allayed. 

“Always a pleasure to be of service, My Lady.”

“Oh Steve! Sorry I just assumed.” She took him in. Hands still firmly gripping either side of the ladder. Black slacks and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He must have just come from the Sunday matinee. “How many times do I have to tell you, you can just call me Nat?”

“Once more, as always, My Lady.” He bowed his head slightly as he spoke, amusement tugging gently at the corner of his mouth. It had become something of a running joke between them. He called her “Natasha” often enough, but never “Nat”. He always reverted to more formal styles of address after a shift at the theater. His chivalrous affect had made him a favorite among the patrons. And among the other staff-members if Darcy was to be believed. 

“Well, I’m just about done. Who wants pizza?”

“Pizza?!” Peter bolted out of the kitchen so fast Nat was fairly certain he broke the sound barrier. 

“Really?” called Nebula following close behind, “You just patch up my roof and you think that means you can commandeer my sous-chef?” 

“Auntie Nebula, can I go if we bring you back garlic knots?”

“You have my blessing. Take the child.” She picked a giggling Peter up under his arms and handed him to his mother who set him back down immediately after placing a kiss atop his head.

\--

A faint tinkling sound like a breeze through wind chimes followed by a swirl of  viridescent flame were the only heralds of Queen Hela’s appearance in the vanity mirror. She cast her eyes around Thor and Loki’s half of the two bedroom suite. It was modest by the queen’s standards but the historic Bleeker Street townhouse turned hybrid BnB/museum was charming and comfortable enough for their purposes. 

Thor nearly dropped his third cup of complimentary coffee when he looked up from his brochure detailing the first floor’s exhibit ‘Ascetic Aesthetic: Depicting Monasteries in Art Across the Globe’ to find the queen’s face staring back at him. Loki, perennially unflappable, had no such issue greeting her majesty with a low bow to the mirror before standing at attention to receive her orders. 

“Well don’t you two look dashing! I wasn’t sure I’d find you alive given that I haven’t heard a word from you in quite some time. You know how I feel about being kept waiting. So – ” she clapped her hands together, “ – have you executed my vision?” her lips twisted into a cruel smirk at her own pun.

“Your Majesty, we did recover Princess Margaret and Sir James. We seem to have arrived here not long after them,”

“I know you did, you fool,  _ I’m _ the one who sent you,” Hela interrupted. 

“But the other knight, the Princess’s beloved, has been considerably more difficult to find.”

One of the more unpredictable elements of bifrost operation was time. Place was simple enough, but time took a delicate hand. Skurge, the now deceased bifrost guardian, did not have the skill to send Princess Margaret and Sir James to the precise moment Sir Steven had been sent to. He came close but it seemed he was off by at least two weeks. The queen, on the other hand, was able to send her henchmen to the right place within hours of her errant step-daughter’s arrival. 

“Must I do absolutely everything?” the queen asked. The displeasure on her face made it abundantly clear the question was rhetorical. “So be it,” she huffed, giving them instructions on a locator spell before she vanished from the glass in a flicker of smokeless flame. 

The timing couldn’t have been better. Sir James had gone to call upon a man named Sam to see about the safe return of their confiscated swords. The princess was occupied with her daily trip to the chrome-plated diner. It was the perfect moment to take a yellow carriage to a place called Queens for a murder attempt. And a slice of brick oven pizza if they had time. 

It was a charming establishment. Black and white photographs hung on the walls. Soft ambient light. Red and white checked cloths draped over the tables. Best of all, it smelled like heaven. Fresh bread, garlic, hints of tangy tomato, and roasted meats. It was all they could do to stay focused. In a moment of weakness, Thor grabbed a breadstick off a preoccupied server’s tray and wordlessly broke it in half to split with his brother. Loki had never loved him more. The plan was simple. Divide and conquer, or rather separate and poison. Thor in plainclothes would locate the knight, watch for the right moment, and run interference if necessary. On Thor’s signal, Loki, dressed in the livery he’d pilfered from the staff lockers, would supply the unsuspecting knight with a poisonous treat. One bite and the job would be done.

Their air-tight plan was somewhat complicated by the restaurant patrons. Thor’s seat at the bar afforded him a good view, but the woman seated next to him kept pulling his focus with puzzling questions. She asked him what his “sign” was. He supposed it would have to be the symbol of the Twin Kingdoms: Queen Hela’s horned crown atop two crossed blades. The woman giggled and touched his arm at that. Why she seemed more interested in his nation’s crest than in her bread and wine was beyond him. 

What was more puzzling still was that the knight had not come to the eatery alone. Sir Steven was seated with a red-haired woman and a talkative small child. He wondered for a moment if perhaps the spell had gone wrong. Perhaps this was some other man. He seemed so at ease in this peculiar world with this woman and her son, surely this couldn’t be the same man who was betrothed to the princess. But it was. It had to be. Magic never lied. Thor watched Sir Steven and the boy passing a paper napkin back and forth each taking turns, it appeared, adding to a shared drawing. 

He couldn’t by any means overhear all of the chatter at the knight’s table, but he did catch a rather perplexing snippet of conversation wherein Sir Steven pointed at two other diners, a man in a wrinkled chambray shirt and a woman sporting tawny cashmere sweater, and asked if they were on a “date date”. His companion (Natasha, if Thor had heard her name correctly) regarded them for a moment. The couple in question was sharing a plate of spaghetti and had accidentally ended up with opposite ends of the same noodle. “Most definitely” he heard Natasha reply conspiratorially as the diner’s lips met. Their posture melted from rigid surprise to affectionate amusement. Thor felt a longing within himself pull at his attention, but quickly quashed it. Now was not the time to be distracted by a tenderness he hardly understood. 

The opportunity, such as it was, presented itself after a playful sword fight between the boy, the woman, and the man with leftover breadsticks in place of weapons. The last slice of their shared pizza had been consumed and they looked to be waiting for a server to bring their bill. Thor signaled to Loki who greeted them with oily charm and an utterly nonsensical accent. 

“Apple pie cannoli, on the house.” Loki set down the poisonous dessert with a flourish and a venomous grin that he hoped passed for hospitality.

“Careful, those things are dangerous,” Natasha deadpanned, “one bite and you’re walking home with a box of a dozen you don’t remember ordering.”

The knight laughed in response. “You’ll just have to keep me from doing anything impulsive.” He wrenched his attention away from the lovely woman and looked up at Loki, “Thank you, sir. This is a most welcome gift. The meal was exceptional. You should be very proud of this establishment.” 

Loki demurred momentarily forgetting that he did not, in fact work at the restaurant in question. Charmed in spite of himself. 

“Mr. Steve, may I have a bite of the cannoli?” The young boy peered up at Sir Steven with wide eyes nary an adult would have the heart to say no to. He looked at the woman, the boy’s mother one assumed, for confirmation before agreeing and breaking the dessert in half. Loki watched in silent horror as the infuriatingly adorable child brought the cursed cannoli to his lips. The mission was simple. As long as the knight took a bite, the job was done and they could go home. All he had to do now was wait. But no one had accounted for the collateral damage. Was Loki the sort of creature who could sacrifice a child if it meant accomplishing his goal? If it served his queen? No. He might not have been human, but even his withered raven’s heart ached at the thought of the boy lying motionless, deaf to his mother’s pleading cries for him to awaken. 

Cursing lightly under his breath, Loki staged an elaborate fall, managing to knock the cannoli out of the hands of both diners. He apologized profusely and ran to the kitchen to fetch replacements. Three plain in place of the single apple pie flavored cannoli. He explained it was a new recipe and a limited batch. As he returned to his brother in defeat he heard the knight privately admit that the accident was fortuitous as he’d never been overly fond of apples. 

\--

Natasha didn’t usually consider herself an anxious person, but finding out her child wasn’t where she expected him to be sent a jolt of panic through her instantly. She expertly hid her reaction from Ned’s father when he told her that instead of building the next Stark Tower out of legos in Ned’s room, they were playing on the roof with Steve. It’s not as if the roof was especially dangerous, it had been renovated into an outdoor lounge and exercise space the previous year during lockdown and the guard walls were sturdy. She took a few breaths to calm herself as she climbed the stairs to the roof. It wasn’t that big a deal, they just should have told her. She’d just give Peter a gentle reminder of the rules and lay them out for the first time for Steve. 

When she opened the door to the rooftop her heart stopped. Her son was dying on a sword. Quite dramatically. While his best friend cried crocodile tears and swore to avenge him. In another circumstance it might have been cute to see the boys playacting with “swords” of repurposed broomsticks. But for Natasha the whimsy of the game was overshadowed by the heady cocktail of fear and rage that stemmed from the man in front of her teaching her child how to use a potentially deadly weapon without her knowledge or permission. 

“Peter,” she called, voice tense with worry before she caught herself and smoothed out her words. “Why don’t you walk Ned back downstairs to his apartment and wait there for me?”

“But mommy, we’re learning to-”

“Now,” she said in the voice that brooked no arguments. 

“Thanks, for playing with us, Mr. Steve,” Ned smiled, dropping his broomstick and scurrying for the stairs. 

“Yeah, thanks Mr. Steve!” Peter gave him a quick hug before following his friend. 

“It was my pleasure, you both have the makings of valiant heroes.”

Nat didn’t miss the way her son’s face lit up at the praise. She waited until she was sure the kids were out of earshot before she turned on the man in front of her.

“What in the hell were you thinking?” She fought through the tightening of her throat that always accompanied panic and rage. 

“Language.” Steve cringed immediately after parroting the phrase he’d heard her use to lovingly admonish her neighbor’s (usually Nebula’s) colorful language if Peter was close by.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” 

“Sorry, it just slipped out.” He at least had the decency to look genuinely apologetic. Unimpressed, Natasha took a few steps closer to make certain she was making eye contact. This was not the time for deflection and fairytale flavored banter. It was time for the apology she was owed. 

“What were you thinking teaching my _s_ _ ix year-old son _ __ to use a weapon without my express permission?”

“I was thinking it was perfectly safe.” All of Steve’s apparent chagrin melted away as he placed his hands on his hips and took another step forward, suddenly defensive. “I made sure the broomsticks were light and had no sharp edges. This isn’t the first time I’ve trained a young squire.” 

“I don’t care how many ‘squires’ you’ve trained. I don’t care how safe you think this was,” Natasha hissed, “He’s my son Steve. You don’t get to decide what’s safe for him, I do. And you sure as hell don’t get to make that call without telling me.”

“Natasha, that’s not-”

“What, fair? Were you about to tell me I’m not being fair? You know what isn’t fair? Asking a six year-old to control not only his own body and his own emotions in a world designed to overstimulate him, but to ask him to control a weapon on top of that. What’s happening with your face right now? Your eyebrows are all pinched. It’s like they’ve put aside their differences and are trying to form one united state of eyebrow. Oh my god you’re angry!”

“You’re damn right,” Steve said through gritted teeth. His spine taut with annoyance pulled him up to his full height, nearly a full foot taller than Natasha. It might have been intimidating if she didn’t find it so amusing. 

“Sir Steven the Affable is experiencing an actual visible human emotion!” Natasha, delighted by her discovery, poked him lightly in the chest to punctuate her sentence.

He opened his mouth as if to contradict her, but was instead speechless for a moment before he let out a sound between a huff and laugh. Genuine amazement pulling at his features. “I… I’ve never done this before.”

“You’ve never been angry? Ever?”

“No, I’ve been angry before. But I’m not angry. I was. But not at you, at me. I’ve never been…  _ wrong _ before.”

“Well,” she laughed, “welcome to Club Human Being. You’re in very good company. As much as I hate to admit it, not even my mom status makes me infallible.”

“This is terrible. I hate this. You go around being wrong all the time?”

“Not  _ all _ the time. But yeah, it happens. It sucks. You learn. You hopefully do better next time.” 

Steve nodded. He didn’t love that answer, but he had to admit, the world suddenly seemed wider, brimming with possibility. There was more magic in the way the late afternoon sun cast an amber glow on the rooftop vegetable garden. Newly ripe tomatoes, butter lettuce, carrots, radishes, and recently planted peas. All lovingly tended by his neighbors. People who got into fights, made mistakes, apologized, and grew. Good company indeed.

With this new awareness came an unfamiliar, but still welcome, warmth. Whether it originated from the summer sun, the exertion of combat training followed by their argument, or the heat radiating from Natasha’s petite frame, he couldn’t tell. Only that he had no desire to move from this spot. Now that his eyes were finally open he couldn’t force himself to look away. 

Natasha dropped her gaze first. It dawned on him that the closeness of their bodies while unintentional, might not be entirely appropriate. They both stepped back with a shared chuckle. He couldn’t be entirely certain, but thought he caught a slight rosiness spreading over Natasha's cheeks. Perhaps the sun was getting to her as well.

“I’m sorry. I should have asked you before I taught Peter to wield a sword.”

“It’s ok. I’m sorry I was a little aggressive.”

“A little?”

She raised one eyebrow and he threw up his hands in surrender. “Fair enough, a lot aggressive.”

“I understand. You were protecting someone you love. I want to keep him safe too.”

“I know, Steve.” Strange though it was, she had never doubted that. Of course, it did help that their first meeting was him literally saving Peter’s life. 

“With your permission, may I teach him to use a shield? I noticed Peter has some weakness in his upper body for a child his size.”

“He does, he was supposed to start OT to help with that last year but then the plague happened.”

“I had the same issue, among many others, as a child. May I train him? I would really love to help.”

“Fine. You can teach him to use a sword, but only if I’m there to supervise. Deal?” She extended her hand. Steve reached out and grasped it firmly with his own.

“Deal.” 

  
“Come on – ” she gently bumped his arm with her shoulder – “let’s go get the kid before Ned’s apartment becomes a lego city.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many many thanks to [Yeetmeaway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeetmeaway/pseuds/Yeetmeaway) for beta reading this chapter!


	8. Thoroughly Modern Margaret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sir James and Princess Margaret each take their own bite out of the Big Apple

“Samuel, your gentleman caller has returned,” Jefferson called in his eerily accurate Blanche DuBois impression. 

Sam suppressed his amusement before opening his office door and replying, “I’ve got a few minutes, send him in.” 

James or “Bucky with the good hair” as Chavez and Khan had started calling him (though how they got “Bucky” from “James” he had no idea), had become a regular sight around the office. He said he intended to persuade Sam to give him his swords back. Maybe that was what he wanted, but Sam had a feeling there was more to it. After more than a decade in social work, he’d learned to trust those instincts. 

James took the seat opposite Sam’s desk. Cheap vinyl peeling off in places. If he minded, he didn’t let it show. There was an odd intensity simmering just beneath his easy charm. It gave him a strange, incongruous presence. Stranger still, it was that very thing which put Sam at ease. Were James just a little less peculiar, Sam would have found him disarming. As it was, he mostly just found him… cute. 

“Is this you?” James asked, gesturing a photo on Sam’s desk. In his previous trips to the office, the frame had been angled away so he hadn’t gotten a good look. In it, a boy of about thirteen stood in an open field, grinning with a falcon perched on his heavily gloved arm.

“Yeah, me and Redwing,” Sam smiled fondly, “my uncle had a place up in the Adirondacks. I used to stay with him every summer. He was a real wilderness guy, like Bear Grylls but less obnoxious. Taught me how to tell the good berries from the poisonous kind. Taught me to catch, clean, and fry a fish. He was also a falconer. Loved birds of prey. Like, to this day I can tell you more about the New York owl population than anyone would like to hear.”

“I spent three years as a falcon. Er a falconer,” James hastily added the second bit before Sam could register just how strange that sounded. 

“Three years huh, what made you switch careers?”

“The isolation. That and I was working for some people I didn’t exactly see eye to eye with.”

“I know that feeling. So, speaking of personal autonomy, I’m going to give you the swords back. On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“Look me in the eyes and swear to me you’re not going to make another scene. You’re going to keep them sheathed if you’re in public. Whatever recreational thing you want to do with them at home is your business. Unless it’s murder. Don’t do murder.”

James chuckled. “I swear. No scenes. No murder. No fights with busses.”

“See you think you’re funny, but you’re doing a smirky thing and now I don’t trust you.”

“Sam, I promise,” James said earnestly. Sam pushed away the softness that fluttered in his chest at the sound of his name. It was so tempting to say he’d reconsidered returning the swords. Not because he didn’t believe him, but because it would keep him coming back. But that would be unprofessional and Sam Wilson was not about to compromise his ethics, not even for someone who looked like a damn Disney prince. 

“Ok then. Don’t make me regret this.” He retrieved the weapons and handed them to James.

“You couldn’t have done that sooner?” James asked playfully.

“Man, get the hell out of my office,” Sam retorted in mock offense. 

James turned back as his free hand reached the door. “By the way, I’d love to hear about the New York owl population. If you ever get the overpowering urge to share bird facts, I’m around.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Sam waited until the door was closed to let the smile he was holding back break free. He opened his music app and put Sam Cooke on shuffle. It was going to be a good day. 

\--

Once upon a time in a faraway Kingdom there was a princess who dreamed of adventure. She spent a lonely girlhood caught between worlds. When she wasn’t attending her lessons, she wandered the woods pretending to be a brave knight or a roguish pirate with only a fox and a raven for company. It drew disapproval from her nursemaid, but so long as she appeared a proper lady in the palace and the girl’s stepmother didn’t complain, there was nothing much to be done about her extracurricular excursions. 

Now, Princess Margaret found herself in the middle of the adventure of her dreams. She had a mystery to solve (the disappearance of her fiancé) and a new world to explore. She had begun to love this place. The constant clamor; the buildings like metal giants reaching ever upwards as if they might touch the sun itself; the people, more than she’d ever met in her life, the clothing, gone were her heavy ornate gowns and in their place were airy blouses and well fitted trousers; and the food, the endless roasts and fussy desserts were nowhere to be found. Here, she could have whatever her heart desired. There were so many new things to try, yet every day she came back to the same diner for her noontide repast. It was less for the food, which was lovely in its simplicity, and more for the company. Angie.

She’d learned so much about this city from listening to her talk. Angie was a waitress with Broadway dreams. Broadway, she’d learned, was theater in New York. But not just any theater, the best. There was also Off-Broadway, Off-Off-Broadway, and something called Non-Eq. Margaret had a hard time keeping all of the distinctions straight. Angie had been a traveling player in the past, but she hadn’t had much luck with auditions since she returned home several months ago. That was something Margaret understood, Angie called it a national tour, but the twin kingdoms had traveling players of their own and they sounded much the same.

“What can I get for you, Peg?” Angie asked. She’d started calling Princess Margaret “Peggy” almost immediately. It was a common, though hardly intuitive, nickname for Margaret in this world. She found she rather liked the sound of it. 

“I’ll have a cheddar cheese omelet and wheat toast. Thank you, Angie.”

“Comin’ right up!” She said brightly while scribbling on her notepad. 

“How did your audition go this morning?”

“Ugh! At least Tesley is close by. Up at the crack of dawn to get on the sign in sheet and then they cut me off 4 bars in.”

“I’m so sorry, Angie. If they can’t see how talented you are, they’re fools who don’t deserve you.”

“Hey miss, if you’re done gabbing, I need a refill,” a middle-aged man with a decidedly unpleasant demeanor called. 

“Thanks, Peggy.” Angie patted her hand lightly letting her fingers linger for just a half second before the irritated customer cleared his throat loudly.

“Yes, sir, I’ll get that coffee right away,” she answered in a frighteningly chipper voice sporting a smile that didn’t come close to touching her eyes. 

Peggy watched as Angie brought the man his coffee. He said something that she couldn’t quite hear but the set of Angie’s shoulders told her it wasn’t an apology for his boorish behavior. Then the insolent fool had the audacity to not only place his vile hands on her body, but make a comment on the “firmness of her ass” loudly enough for Peggy to hear. 

“I’ll be right back with your order, sir,” Angie said as if “sir” meant “putrid ball of slime”. Once she retreated to the kitchen, Peggy picked up her fork and calmly walked over to the man’s table.

“I understand you’re unhappy with your service.”

“You work here?”

“Fortunately, no,” She stepped behind him and in one fluid motion put her left hand on his shoulder and pressed the fork into his right side. “Now just so we’re clear, this is pressed into your brachial artery. It may be dull, but I’m determined. Keep smiling-” she pressed the fork deeper into his side causing him to stifle a grunt before plastering an uncomfortable grimace on his face, “once you start to bleed, you’ll lose consciousness in 15 seconds. You’ll die in 90 unless someone comes to your aid. Now given your recent behavior, how likely do you think that is to happen? To prevent this not entirely unfortunate event from occurring I suggest you find another place to eat. Do we understand each other?”

“Yeah,” the man grunted.

“Good. And one more thing, tip generously.” Peggy tapped his shoulder before removing the fork and turning back to her seat. The man let out a cough of relief before scrambling for his wallet, taking out several bills and running for the door. 

Peggy grinned into her own mug of coffee. It was going to be a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I'm choosing titles for the ease of the pun rather than my love of the play/musical. I've never seen all of Thoroughly Modern Millie (the plot is... not for me) but "Gimme Gimme" is burned in my brain forever. Probably yours too if you've ever been present for college musical theater program auditions. 
> 
> Thanks to Yeetmeaway for beta-ing this chapter!


End file.
